by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from Poosey.
Olga wouldn’t leave her porch. I was just a kid running wild and loose along the roads ’round Poosey when I noticed her sitting there. She’d come out early that morning to take her usual place in the wooden rocker on her porch, coffee in hand, but unlike her usual practice of watching the traffic, listening to the birds, then going back inside